


The Fragrance of Hearsay

by Wickedlovely01



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Angst, Angst/Fluff, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, alex is dead, but ahhh this idea is so good, fluff/angst, guys i've got an ap lit assignment wtf am i doing, he makes john cry, i have to learn like 10 songs by the 6th, i shouldn't be writing, lafayette is guilty, poor baby john
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-29
Updated: 2016-05-29
Packaged: 2018-07-11 00:00:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,357
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7013956
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wickedlovely01/pseuds/Wickedlovely01
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John couldn’t find the words to say how much he loved Alexander Hamilton.</p><p>Maybe there were no words. Not this time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Fragrance of Hearsay

“Don’t... Don’t forget to brush your hair every night,” John said softly, tucking a few of Alexander’s stray strands behind his ear. A second later, a gust of wind blew them free again. “You know how you abhor dealing with dreadlocks in the mornings.” His fellow aide-de-camp smiled softly, catching his hand, kissing his knuckles with his finger tips. John bit his lip, closed his eyes. He wondered if Alexander would do this to him come next week, make him go weak in the knees and fuzzy in the head.

“Of course, my Laurens.” He responded, and his voice was that of smooth satin blowing gently on the breeze. John leaned into his touch for a moment, allowing himself a few seconds of quick affection before pulling away altogether. They shared a tent with three other men, and they often came in at all random times of the day. There was never a place on this blessed green earth that harbored safety for them. If they were caught, surely his Hamilton would lose all the scholarships he worked so hard for, be humiliated in front of Washington, and dishonorably discharged from the one thing that enraged his fire. John would never see him again, for if they were found out, his father would bring him home, lock him up like an animal, force another woman he didn’t love into his life.

John turned away, walking towards the thin mattress he’d been issued upon arrival. There were not a lot of things he missed about his plantation in South Carolina, certainly not the treatment of the slaves or his overbearing father, but he would be lying if he said he didn’t long for his queen sized bed. Here, he slept on hard straw, worn down by months of use. Back home, he slept on feathers and cotton, like heaven. John picked up the flimsy bedding, pulling out two green apples he’d been saving for a couple of days. He went back over, handing them to Alexander.

“Eat these. Please. You’re going to need your strength, and I’d rather you not faint on the battlefield.” John’s voice was soft, and he closed his eyes. A moment later lips were pressed to his lips, and apples were pressed back into his hands.

Just as John had a moment before, Alexander pulled away, and the other soldier opened his eyes, blinking a couple of times. “John, surely you trust me to eat? The Marquis will secure rations for his men, you mustn't give me yours. Winter is upon us, my dear fellow,and I-”

That was the problem with loving Alexander Hamilton. No matter the gift, he’d always find a reason to not take it, or he’d saunter on down back to the trading post, haggle with Smith to redo the trade, and give you back what you had originally owned. Last Christmas - God, John remembered that that had almost been a year ago - he’d gifted Alexander a used chessboard when they passed through Jamestown. It hadn’t been much, just a couple of shillings and sixpence John had managed to scrabble and save, and the entire wooden face was scratched and stained. Some of the pawns and rooks had edges missing; one knight had no ear, but it was something sentimental. Something he thought Alexander deserved, after all the hours of work he’d done. John, at least, thought he deserved a few hours of relaxation and fun. But the fellow soldier had tried to squabble with the shop owner, tried to give it back, because John shouldn’t spend his money on him. John should save up to buy a house once this war was over and the new country secured.

The chessboard was still in their possession, under the bed and collecting dust. Hamilton didn’t like to look at it, said it made him feel guilty because he hadn’t gotten John anything. Sometimes John would pull it out, and he and the Marquis would play it, talk about their lives before the war, drink rum and whiskey until they passed out from drunkenness. But Hamilton, he never used his gift.

“Alex...” John pushed the apples back. “Take them. Please. I shall stay back here at camp, tending to the horses and writing General Washington’s correspondence. What use do I have of these apples?”

“A great deal!”

Again, he leaned up, pinning some dark brown hair behind Hamilton’s ear once more, smiling softly and kissing his lips. “I gift them to you. Not as a fellow aide, not as a fellow soldier, not as a brother. No. I gift these apples to you, my Hamilton, my Alexander, as a lover. So... Actually, forgive me, I wish to restate myself. I am giving you these apples because if you don’t eat, you die. I won’t have you die, not when there is something I can do about it. If you die, I die, because the only thing that keeps me up and going and not running straight into a cannon is you.”

“I see. Very well, John, I shall very begrudgingly accept these apples.” He watched as Alexander slipped them into his burlap sack, let out a sigh he didn’t know he had held.

“Thank you.” Silence. John didn’t know what to say.

What was one supposed to say to one’s loved one who might not live another day?

Alexander’s mission came in the form of a small redheaded boy, not much more than fourteen, and a scroll secured with a wax seal of the coat of arms so familiar of Lafayette. In it was written that he had been personally hand chosen by the Marquis himself to help conduct a raid on a British encampment a few dozen miles due north. It had been the assignment Hamilton had wanted, for the ambitious man had itched to go into battle since the day he arrived. For months, he’d been confined to the boundaries of Washington’s camp, watering the horses and letting them eat carrots and oats out of his hand, or sitting at the creaky desk that sat in the corner of the tent, painstakingly writing essay after essay, letter after letter. John would have been fine dealing with Alexander’s boredom. After all, he knew the feeling.

Both men were gunpowder, black with war and dirty with hunger to do something with their lives. One spark, and they would ignite into a flower of blazing glory. Alexander, regrettably, had now joined the flames. Ever since finishing that letter, he’d let the fire consume him. John could see it in his eyes, and he could never, in the three days they had before the mission, persuade him to change his mind. John knew it was a suicide mission, because Hamilton had trouble following orders on his best days, deliberately disobeying them on his worst. He couldn’t figure out why Lafayette wanted him in his rabble in the first place. It was like he’d put a lion in a pen of sheep. The outcome was always going to be death.

John couldn’t find the words to say how much he loved Alexander Hamilton.

Maybe there were no words. Not this time.

The tent flap burst open, and his train of thought had come to a screeching halt. Both John and Alexander stood at brisk attention as Lafayette entered, saluting him with the utmost respect that he deserved.

“Relax, gentlemen,” He greeted them warmly, passing hand hand through the air. The aides did as were told. Lafayette smiled at his friends. “You need not present me with such respect when we are not among the public eye. We are friends, remember? I am not our famous General Washington. Non. I am a mere man who has the joy to command a battalion. Alexander, please go and pack your belongings on the horse I have brought you.”

Hamilton did so with a curt nod, and once he was out of sight, John’s sad smile turned into that of a scowl. “You’re still taking him with you?”

Lafayette shrugged, going to lounge in one of the low-rising chairs. He was always a tall one, the Marquis. John noted that he curled up into the seat, tucking his long legs under him like a feline, and it made him look out of place. Though this was the path he had chosen willingly for himself, John thought that Lafayette had always been built for the precious ballrooms of Paris, the likes of which he’d only seen in paintings. Maybe in a different world, one where America was never stomped on by the dirty heels of monarchism and the Coercive acts, Lafayette would be a prince. He would be dressed in lavish golds and royal blues, those luscious brown eyes enunciated by black eyeliner, and life for him would not be hard.

“Why would I change my mind?” He questioned John, an eyebrow raised.

“Because-” Realizing his voice was too loud and that the tents were very thin, he leaned closer to the Marquis, voice hushed and hurried. “Because you know Hamilton.”

“Exactly,” He explained, using a finger to motion outside. “I know Hamilton. He is a very good soldier, trained by the militia in New York with his other King’s College alumni. I do not doubt he had previous military training before America.”

“That’s not what I meant, Gilbert. He’s brash, he’s abrasive, he talks too much. I do believe he’ll give you away in the dead of night by all his non-stop jabbering. If you take him, I fear that this mission will be an utter failure.”

But the higher ranking Officer shook his head. “John, if that were true, then this entire camp would have perished by now. I understand your anxiety about letting Hamilton go, but I must remind you that he is much more capable than any of us think.”

“He’s frail,” John countered, and he turned away, bottom lip jutting out.

Lafayette rose from his seat, dusting off the front of his thighs with his hand, and once he was done put it on John’s shoulder. “You only think Alexander is frail.” His accented voice was soft, like he was coaxing a young child to settle down and sleep. Indeed, John felt lulled by the Marquis’ tone, and the acidic taste in his mouth began to subside. “Hamilton will be fine, I swear to you. He shall be with me the entire time, and I shall not let any harm befall him.”

John sighed, tipping his head back for a second or two. “Knowing him, he’ll probably get himself stabbed trying to prove himself to you.”

That brought a small smile out of the Officer. “Knowing him, yes. But not today. Your Alexander will be back in this tent, with you, not a scratch on him, in five days time. Just you wait. Now, I must part from you. We’ve a long day of travelling ahead of us.” He turned to leave, and John was about to let him, before he hastily stopped him, going through the drawer in the desk and pulling out some coffee.

“Alexander is not a morning person. You probably already have some, but here’s extra, just in case.”

Lafayette grinned, taking the present he’d been given. “You are such a mother, John Laurens.”

***

The world had lost some of its color the day that John Laurens found out that Alexander Hamilton had been declared dead.

He had done his duties to Washington obediently and to the best of his ability for three days. He took care of his horses, made sure they were groomed and well fed both day and night. He accompanied him to his military meetings, taking notes so they could later record for future use. He wrote his correspondence, though he lacked the flair that Alexander was born with. Words were not his forte, and his was a mere mortal compared to Hamilton’s eternal sentences. When all was said and done with, it was going to be Alexander’s paragraphs that stood the test of time, like those scottish castles John read about in his free time. His would melt and fade away like sea foam, and he was fine with that. That was all a man like him deserved. He just hoped Hamilton would return home soon so Washington didn’t sound like a complete baffoon in front of the Continental Congress.

On the third night alone, a shipment of Sam Adams had been presented to the lads under Washington’s command, and John wasted no time guzzling down alcohol. He was tired of stale whiskey and rum, it had started to taste like piss, but there was always something about Sam Adams that made him whole again. It sent a warm tingling throughout his entire being, and he decided that maybe having Alexander gone wasn’t the worst thing in the world. At least alone, or with the other three aides, they could drink and have a merry time without Hamilton squawking at them to be quiet. They played chess on the chessboard John had gotten, and when he was well enough under the influence, he woefully moaned the story of it to the other men, his words slurred together. Not everything in war had to be serious and sober. It was a nice change to just have fun, let one’s feelings out that had been pent up for months. After they grew tired of a two person game, they changed to cards.

“John,” A french voice called from inside the tent, and the drunk man whirled around to see Lafayette’s head poking through the soiled canvas. “Could I talk to you privately outside, please? It is of urgent importance.”

“‘Fayette!” He joyfully screamed, patting to the open spot next to him. “Come, come. We’re playin’ cards. You shoul’ join us!”

“Non, I... John, I really must speak to you. It is about Alexander.”

The way Lafayette said that... It slapped John into near sobriety. His tone of voice did not sound cheery or hopeful, not like days before when they were laughing about French anecdotes over their dinner of mush. John cleared his throat, put his cards down, and excused himself from the party.

Lafayette took John by the shoulder, leading him to his tent, sitting him down in one of the chairs he’d imported from Versailles. John looked at his comrade, noticed that the skin around his eyes was red and puffy, that his hair, already frazzled to begin with, was simply unruly and unkempt, which was so unlike the man. John took note that the Marquis spent a half an hour carefully pushing and poking his hair into the tight bun on his head. His clothes were torn and battered, and was that... Was that a piece of cloth he was holding?

“I’m afraid I have some bad news for you.”

Oh. Oh...

That was why he looked so unlike himself. Something had happened. Something about Alexander? John couldn’t rightly remember. He thought he heard his name spoken, but everything had kind of blurred together. “It’s ‘kay if the mission wasn’t good, ‘Fayette,” John assured his friend, placing a hand in his own. “Washington will understand.”

“Non, mon ami. The mission was... Well... I had hoped for a better outcome, but we didn’t exactly fail. Do you not remember what this meeting is about?”

John hiccuped, swayed in his seat. “‘Xander?”

“Oui. Exactly. Our Hamilton. Your Alexander.”

The other man looked around, like a dog searching happily for his master. “Where is he? Can I see ‘im? I miss ‘im”

His face was gently grabbed by Lafayette’s hands, and he was forced to look at the Marquis again. His brown eyes were not regal like they should have been. This was not a prince’s gaze. This was the gaze of a man who had made a detrimental mistake. This was the gaze of a man who had made a faustian contract with the devil, and it was time to uphold the end of his deal. Tears had sprung to his eyes, and John wished to wipe them away. If the mission was such a success, why was he starting to cry?

“John... Before I say it, I just... I really did try my best. It was dark, we were tired and wounded, but we were on our way home. Alexander was coming home, to you. The entire time back he... He just talked about how good you were to him, how he didn’t deserve you, and when he and I were alone, he privately told me he’d like to bed you, how he loved you and ached to be in your arms again.” John’s face lit up bright red.

“He can bed me anytime he wants.”

“We were a day’s ride from camp, and I had to set up camp so the men could assess and further tend to their injuries. I didn’t know... oh mon dieu , aidez-moi, I didn’t know that the British were following suit. We had some of their men - lots of their supplies, but I didn’t think that those returning from a mission were coming after us. Once we were all settled, they attacked us, and I thought that I pushed Alexander behind me. I thought that he was safe with me. But I... I was wrong.”

Lafayette broke his composure, bursting into tears of guilt and compunction, letting his head fall onto John’s knee as he gripped his lapel. “J'avais tort. J'avais tort, j'avais tort, j'avais tort.”

John cocked his head to the side, not fully understanding the situation but fully understanding French. “Laf... Why were you wrong?”

At that, the grief-stricken Marquis looked up again, and after wiping away tears and snot, cleared his throat. The next time he spoke, it was like all the life was drained from him. His skin looked ashy, pale, as if he belonged to the underworld itself, commanded under Hades. “Alexander... Your darling Hamilton... Alexander is dead.”

“What? No... No.” John shook his head, laughing, because there was no way in hell what Lafayette told him was true. There was no way that he’d never get to see Hamilton again, that he’d never get to watch him sign his name on another abolition essay, or spoon-feed him porridge when he got to weak to care for himself. “That’s fun...funny, Laf. Haha, great joke. Um... I’ll reccomended you to my father’s comedy club down South. I just... I wish to know where Hamilton is. Where is my Hamilton?”

“No, John... This is not a joke. What I say I say in full truth, God as my witness Hamilton is dead. I cannot tell you where he is, for we lost the body. The British have him, and once they find out he is a mere aide-de-camp, surely they shall slaughter him like a pig at the butcher’s. His soul is with God now.”

John just stared at him, and watched as the colors of the world turned into hot wax, blending into one massive splotch of unflattering brown before slowly drip, drip, dripping out of his vision forever. His hands shook, and he vaguely heard himself let out a low, mournful howl. Alex. Alex. Alexander.

Who was going to hold him during those long winter nights and warm his chilled bones?

Who was going to carve a single word of love or praise into his morning apple?

Who was going to leave miles of poetry for him to blush over when he had free time?

Who was going to read him Shakespeare’s Hamlet when it was too hot to sleep?

Who was going to make him hard just by the highly sexual words he wrote secretly over breakfast?

Certainly not his Alexander. Certainly not his Hamilton, with his soft brown hair and ambitious brown eyes. There was not going to be a day of color in John Lauren’s life. He’d forgotten what absolute cold felt like; the kind you suffered when you knew there was no one in the world who loved you like you loved them. Lafayette would be there for him, of course. John knew that until he was shipped off to France again he’d make sure there was food in John’s belly and sleep in his mind. He would do it because he owed John, because he loved Alexander and because they were friends, but it did nothing to stitch the bleeding heart that now resided in him.

“You need... You need to sleep.” John could barely register Lafayette’s voice. He could hear Alexander’s light laughter though, faintly, in his ears. He tried to float away with the cadences, because maybe his voice would lead him to Hamilton. However, his body felt like lead, and he couldn’t move. “You can have my bed... It’s more comfortable than your own. I’m so sorry, John... If I could build a staircase to heaven and bring our Alexander back, the Lord knows I would.”

***

_The night was young; the moon had peaked over the valley hills only three hours ago, yet most of the camp had fallen under the charms of Lady Slumber. Most of the camp, though, was not two men in the back row of tents, illuminated only by two candle stubs in the sputtering darkness. Alexander and John were birds of a feather, you could not have one without the other. Two peas in a pod. Together, they had written essay on top of essay about freeing the slaves. It was nice, just the two of them. All John could hear was the scratching of quill on paper, the dipping of the pen into the ink, and the quiet snoring of the other three bunkmates._

_“Alex,” John whispered, looking over at his partner. The other man didn’t look up, merely raised an eyebrow and made a noise confirming he was listening. “Shall I put extraordinary or momentous in my essay?”_

_“Momentous. You do not want to sound like some giddy schoolboy, my Laurens, though you and I both know that’s exactly what you are.”_

_“Oh hush.”_

_“You’ve not a droll comeback?”_

_“None that would shut you up, I’m afraid.”_

_Silence overtook the two aides once more, and they fell into an archaic rhythm of yawning and blinking, of pinching skin to make sure they had not nodded off and smudged the ink. Another hour had passed before John blew on his parchment to secure the drying of his words. This essay only amounted to five pages, which was mere child’s play compared to Hamilton’s thirty-two. But not everyone had a talent to last them through the ages._

_All John Laurens had was his fiery temper and his love for Alexander Hamilton._

_He doubted that would be enough to get said love to bed._

_“Alex,” No response this time. John suspected he’d fallen into the pits of his own mind. “Alexander.”_

_John rolled up the parchment and set it to the side, going over to his partner and putting his hands on his shoulders, kissing the skin of his exposed neck. “Alexander.”_

_“What is it, John?”_

_“It is time for bed.”_

_“Alright. Have a good night, My Laurens. I shall see you when the sun rises yet again, and the birds are singing their sweet tunes of morning and- oh.” Alexander looked down, watching as his hand finished writing what he had just said, and John chuckled, plucking the quill from his unsuspecting hands, putting it back in the ink well. “No, but, John... John, I messed up.”_

_John kissed his head, gently, but forcefully nonetheless, turning Hamilton around in his chair, pressing their lips together. If Hamilton kept thinking about the essay he’d potentially ruined, he’d get no sleep for a couple of days, and no amount of coffee could fix his irritability. “Cross it out in the morning. It’s only a line of poetry, the General shall forgive you of your transgressions.”_

_Alexander smiled beneath the kiss, running his hands down John’s shoulders and arms, up under his shirt, back down to fiddle with the buckles on his pants. “And what about these transgressions? Shall I be forgiven for this?” John softly bit Alexander’s lip, tugging at it has he pulled away to the bed, dragging his lover with him._

_“You need not be forgiven when you have done nothing wrong to me.” There was a quick change in the mood as they lay side by side. As soon as Alexander’s head hit the pillows, John could see his eyelids droop, and he wondered how much sleep he’d gotten this week. He constantly worried about his Alexander, because even if he didn’t know about his life in the West Indies, he could still tell that storms frightened him terribly, that he wolfed down food like a dog that hadn’t eaten in days, that he lied about being sick even though he was constantly on the verge of fever. John’s own personal duty, not given to him by Washington or the Marquis himself, was to watch over this horse of a man, who thought he was invincible, but really was the most frail out of anyone he’d ever known. What if he stopped breathing during the nighttime? What if there was this great, terrible storm that scared him to no end, and he had an attack while John was sleeping soundly?_

_“John?” He looked over. Hamilton’s eyelids had drooped halfway, and John rolled on his side to face him. He was right in the middle of their mattresses, the thick piece of wood signalling the width of both digging into his side. They pushed them together once they realized the war might take them away from each other. He brushed back some of Alexander’s loose strands of hair._

_“What is it?”_

_“I love you.” John opened his mouth to say something, but just as quickly as he said it, Alexander turned away , and by the slight rise and fall of his chest, John knew he’d fallen asleep. Knowing better than to wake him to just continue this petty conversation of sappy romance, he covered his partner up in the thin blankets they had, and drifted off himself, arms around his Hamilton._

**Author's Note:**

> HEYYY DID I MURDER YOU WITH FEELS?  
> yeah i've kind of had writer's block the past few days, but idk, i /managed/ to write this?  
> there's a second part to this if you guys want me to write and publish this. i might even if you guys love this ending, i just had to cut it short bc i have work tonight.
> 
> as always, comments make me smile more than my crush does, so please leave them!


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